Confluence
by SweeneyGirl310593
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson arrived in each other's lives at just the right time. My take on the events that necessitated their initial partnership. Includes Mycroft, Mum and Dad Holmes, Harry and Stamford. Pair of one shots. Rating increased because of Harry's language. Please let me know what you think :)
1. The Detective

Authors note: I always thought it odd that a guy who's brother basically is the British Government and who's parents have a bit of money would need a flatmate for financial reasons. So here's my take as to how that need came about. Basically Sherlock being stubborn and Mycroft being Mother Hen (and recruiting their actual mother to help). Hope no one's too ooc. Let me know what you think :)

The Detective

Mycroft Holmes was a man whose shoulders bore a great many responsibilities. His career at the highest levels of Her Majesty's government would demand no less, after all. At the moment, however, the source of his strife lay a little closer to home. Precisely, it lay five feet away in a hospital bed, glaring at him from underneath a mop of unkempt dark curls. Many others would have quailed at the icy blue stare but Mycroft was quite used to dealing with his little brother's moods.

"So" the elder Homles said sardonically "what is the meaning of this exercise in self destruction, Sherlock?"

"Oh for God's sake it was for a case! I wasn't actually trying to kill myself!"

"Oh I see! Still playing with the boys from Scotland Yard, are we?" It was one of the many bones of contention between them. Mycroft knew his brother had a brilliant mind. When he graduated top in his PhD chemistry class from university nearly six years ago, he could have walked into any job he wanted. In fact, Mycroft had gone to great pains to arrange for the creation of a position under him that would both suit his brother's interests and give him the opportunity to excel. Instead, Sherlock chose to spend his time rooting through bins in filthy alleyways to assist the local police force and dabbling in illegal substances. Whether it was because he couldn't stand the thought of Mycroft lording it over him or because he enjoyed showing off for the easily impressed, the elder brother had no idea.

"The police come to me when they are out of their depth, which is worryingly often..."

"I doubt they approve of your methods."

"They yield results. That's all that matters." Sherlock's brusque tone urged his brother to stop talking.

"You deal in results, I deal in consequences. The consequence of this latest escapade was very nearly your death, do you understand?"

"That was the point. I proved that the dose of that particular drug combination..."

Mycroft had no time for the sordid details. "So far this year you have managed to seriously endanger your life on no less than five separate occasions in the name of these problems you enjoy solving. I have to wonder if you can be left to your own devices..."

Sherlock wasn't listening. Instead he looked out of the window into the corridor beyond, seeing a familiar pair of silhouettes. "What are they doing here?" He snapped.

"I felt you would be more likely to respond to a higher authority."

A blonde lady swept imperiously into the room, almost towing her husband behind her. "Dear Lord" growled the younger Holmes.

"That is no way to greet your mother!" Said the woman herself "now what have you been doing to yourself young man?"

"Brother dear has taken a quite alarming combination of narcotics and has nearly died of multiple organ failure. I am attempting to convince him that this was a bad idea." Mycroft replied sternly from the corner.

"Oh this is familiar." Sherlock raised his usual baritone a few mocking octaves "'Mummy, Sherlock's been at the cake. Mummy Sherlock's broken your favourite bowl. Mummy-"

"Stop it! Your brother only has your best interests at heart!" Their mother remonstrated.

"How's the life drawing class going Mother?" Sherlock had forced his face into a tight smile "not very well judging by the state of your right hand..."

"Please Sherlock, it isn't the time." His father spoke gently "your mother is very worried.". It was true, the signs of it could be read on both their faces. Mycroft disliked having to involve them in this but if Sherlock could not be drawn by him alone, so be it.

"I am perfectly fine, Father. That haircut really doesn't suit you."

"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" Mrs. Holmes voice rang shrilly in the small room.

"Isn't that his natural state?" Mycroft sighed.

"Myc, please, that really doesn't help." Their father spoke again.

A quiet 'ping' cut through the thickening atmosphere "My phone, Mycroft, give me my phone." Sherlock commanded the member of his family closest to the table on which the Blackberry rested.

"Say please!"

Sherlock sent his brother a withering look.

"No boys! We are having a family discussion. If you two could stop fighting for more than two seconds, that would be marvellous! Honestly you are brothers! You're supposed to love each other!" Their mother pinched her brows in consternation as she took a seat on a plastic chair.

Both siblings were temporarily united in expressions of distaste. "Why?" Said Sherlock "why does the fact that we happen to share parents have to make us best buddies?"

"Because!"

"That is a poor line of reasoning!"

Mycroft had a dim memory of a time before he became a sibling at seven years old. He remembered not being thrilled with the prospect. The whole baby malarky seemed to him a rather messy process that no people as sensible as his parents should repeat. However, he had warmed to the younger child. Sherlock had been a rather sweet little boy. How times had changed.

She took a deep breath. "Now Sherlock, Mycroft has suggested that until you find yourself a more...stable situation, that you stay with us. Given the circumstances, I think that would be for the best."

"Oh I see, because I don't have a nice sensible job like Mycroft I am to be reduced to a child, am I? I suppose you want me to die of boredom instead? I am staying in London. That is where I am needed. There was no need to get you involved."

"At least let me arrange for less...distasteful accommodation. In a better area of this infinitely troubled city."

"You are not my keeper, Mycroft! I won't take a penny from you!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to pinch his nose to stifle a rapidly encroaching migraine. "Perhaps I can suggest an alternative?"

A week later Sherlock was again to be found at St Bartholomew's Hospital. This time he was visiting the morgue to assist in one of Lestrade's more nebulous cases. Unfortunately, Stamford was currently treating his students to an unscheduled lecture among the dead. At least it might do something to wake them up during the 9am session. As he sat impatiently outside the door at 11.15 his phone 'pinged'. Mycroft, obviously in an appointment of some kind.

/Any progress with our agreement? Mycroft/

As it happened Sherlock had made some. After a session on Google, he had managed to find an available flat that would suit him well in Baker Street. When he had contacted the landlady, he had discovered a familiar name. Mrs. Hudson, it seemed, had slowed down her pace of life in the last few years. There was just one thing left. Sherlock was typing a suitably cutting reply to his brothers text when the entrance to the morgue opened and a gaggle of students left. He brushed past them into the clinical room. The smell of strong antiseptic hung in the air which mixed unpleasantly with the odour of cheap perfume some of the female students had been overusing.

"Oh hello Sherlock!". Sherlock groaned. Stamford rarely made riveting conversation.

"Get out. I need to conduct an experiment and Molly will be here any moment." He said shortly.

"Nice to see you too mate!" Stamford chuckled. When the detective failed to respond, he busied himself clearing up his papers. Sherlock, conversely, was assembling a wide array of objects that would ordinarily have no place in this room.

"How does one go about finding a flatmate?" He mused.

"You what, mate?" Asked Stamford.

Sherlock glanced up, apparently unpleasantly surprised he was still accompanied by the lecturer. He considered brushing him off but found himself repeating his question.

"I find myself in need of a flatmate. Property in Central London hardly comes cheap."

"Flatshare? You seem more the solitary type."

"Therein lies my difficulty. It has occurred to me that I may not be the most...agreeable flatmate to most people."

"Try Google? Gotta run anyway. See you."

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he looked up at the young woman walking through the double doors, her customary ponytail swinging. "Oh hi Mike!" She smiled.

"Molly." Stamford responded with a short wave.

"Ah Molly. Arrived at work early this morning, I see. I assume that means you've had time to find me a suitable body?"

As Stamford left, he couldn't help wondering; who *would* want Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate anyway?


	2. The Medic

The Medic

A.N.: This one turned out longer than I thought and has a higher rating due to Harry Watson's mouth (there was a reason he had to delete her comments off his blog!) Trigger warnings for traumatic injury and discussion of mental health issues. Please let me know what you think. Might write another chapter. Will see how it goes. Thanks for reading.

"Watson!" Someone was yelling through the din. John snapped around to see Haines, lying on the door their group had kicked in moments before, reaching out towards him. He could tell even through the dappled shadows cast by the broken ceiling of what could charitably be described as a building and the dust that permeated this part of the world that the man was bleeding heavily from an upper leg wound. The private's eyes pleaded for help. Automatically, John tore back through the narrow alleyway to kneel beside his latest patient. The sheer heat and noise would be enough to get to most people but pressurised situations always lent John a kind of tunnel vision, a close focus on what needed to to be done that made him ideally suited to this job. One glance was enough to tell that it wasn't looking good. Already a dark red stain spread beneath the younger man's thighs and he was shaking.

"Bad s'it?" Haines slurred, attempting to turn and face his commanding officer.

"S'alright, Ben. I'll sort you out. Just stay still for me, ok? Keep talking."

"Hurts". John snorted. That must be an understatement.

"Yeah, mate, I know. Just keep talking to me, yeah?"

"S'at an order, Sir?" Haines asked wryly.

John gave a tight smile before reaching for his medical kit.

That was when his world exploded into the staccato crack of gunfire. He heard the bullet sink into his left shoulder with a sickening wet crunch before feeling it. A burning, throbbing pain pulsed across his entire left side before his head connected at speed with the rubble strewn on the ground behind him. Blinding white and black flashes danced at the corners of his vision and he was distantly aware of words - orders - being barked in a language he did not know. The only thought his rapidly fading consciousness could come up with before it winked out was _'Please God, let me live_.'

Two months later Captain John Watson MD had won his fight for life. It hadn't been easy. Due to lack of proper medical facilities near the village where he had been injured, an infection which resulted in septicaemia had set in. By the time he had arrived back at base camp, he was in such a bad way that the decision was made to send him home on the first available plane. The staff at hospital he was taken to did not expect him to survive. Thankfully, he had responded to treatment but was still in a coma for a few weeks, during which time he lost a considerable amount of weight. Once he had woken up, he had to contend with rehabilitation and visits from the rest of the boys, his commander, Major James Sholto and, most stressful of all, his sister. Their conversation as she dropped him from the hospital to the temporary accomodation provided by the state to it's recuperating servicemen had been rather taxing for both of them.

"Hey Johnny!" She had shouted when he climbed into her car. A fairly risky decision but considering it was this or the bus, he opted for a comfy, heated vehicle. He winced at the childish extra syllable on his name.

"Hey Harry. Thanks for doing this."

"Get me! Giving my big brother a lift like a proper adult! Where is this place anyway?"

He grinned and gave her the address for her sat nav. After a few moments of small talk he casually asked "How's Clara?"

"How should I know?" She bristled.

"Well, you live with her...unless you don't anymore. You said you two were working things out."

"That was before she started being a bitch."

"About?" Prompted John.

Harry sighed. "About me falling off the wagon again."

John groaned "Oh Harriet!"

"I know, ok! I know, I just...I was at Sandra's leaving do and they told me to have a Champagne and before you know it, I'm puking my guts out in the car park. So they phone Clara. Then she goes off on one about how I've got no willpower and I'm a complete mess. So we have a massive row and she ends up nearly slapping me. So I kicked her out. To be honest I've had enough of her treating me like some errant kid. I think its for good this time."

John couldn't hide his disappointment. Harry had always been the family firecracker but she seemed to have calmed down a bit when she met Clara. Clara was a lovely girl and had supported Harry through AA. When they got a civil partnership, John had thought his sister's life had finally settled down. Now, everything appeared to be in disarray again. He was beginning to be glad he hadn't taken her up on her offer of a place to stay.

She was looking hard at him. "Don't you bloody start."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were doing the look. What's with the bloody traffic in this city!" She pressed the horn on the steering wheel which emitted a high pitched whine.

"What look?"

"The disappointed look. The 'why are you such a fuck up' look. Do you have any idea how frustrating you are sometimes?"

"Me? what have I done?! In case you haven't noticed I've been in Helmand for the last nine months!"

"I dunno. Been so perfect. Perfect Johnny with his good grades and perfect manners and 'isn't it wonderful he became a doctor?', 'isn't it wonderful that he followed Uncle Bob into the army?'. Fantastic golden boy John!"

"Harry, c'mon..."

"No!" She was getting tearful now. This was going to be a long drive. "They were always so bloody proud of you! And y'know what the worst part was? You deserved it. I'm fucking proud of you! I mean you're a war hero for Christ's sakes and what am I? Some drunk with no prospects, constantly changing jobs, never right for anything!"

"Harry, you are very talented, you've just got to apply yourself is all."

"Is that all it is? Is that the secret to being liked? 'Just apply yourself'? It's alright for you, you were always their favourite, all our family. It would have been nice if at least one person had preferred me. Even t out a bit."

"It's not a competition."

"Felt like it sometimes. You know Grandad stopped talking to me? As soon as I came out, he didn't pick the phone up anymore. Yet another reason for him to be disappointed in me, I guess!"

John sighed. He had never quite forgiven their grandfather for that. "I know. I told him nearly every time I saw him to pull his head out of his arse and join the twenty first century but, y'know, old habits. And Harry, Mum and Dad didn't have a favourite. You know they weren't those people. They loved us both."

She sniffed "I know. I'm sorry. I'm the one with a problem. The family head-case."

"Yeah well I'm not doing too great in that department at the moment." He gave a small grimace into his lap as they let the tension and talking drain from the car. Harry busied herself with finding an acceptable radio station and John busied himself with a copy of the Metro. When they arrived at their destination. Harry reiterated her offer of a place to stay. John had to decline again. As much as he loved his sister, they had always clashed. Neither of them were in a good headspace right now and she was trying enough to spend extended periods with at the best of times. He knew neither of them would improve if they lived together.

"Take this then." She offered him a black smartphone.

"Harry, I've got a phone."

"No, John, you've got a brick that can just about manage a call if you're lucky. Just take it, please."

John accepted the device with a small smile and began pulling the small carry on full of his belongings behind him.

Harry leaned out of the window and shouted; "And stay in touch!"

"Will do!" He called over his shoulder.

After another couple of months, it became apparent that John would not be returning to duty. His physical health was still fragile and he now walked with a pronounced limp caused by leg pain. The therapist they had referred him to had written 'psychosomatic' next to his description of that particular symptom. As far as he was concerned she could call it what she liked. It still hurt. That was another issue. Since the incident that had lead to his being discharged from the Fifth Northumberland Fusileers John's mental health was still shaky. He was experiencing recurring nightmares of that arid afternoon on an almost daily basis and felt a deep sense of disconnection from the rest of the world, as though he was watching a bland documentary on TV instead of living his life. His therapist said this was a common problem for those returning from war as though this was supposed to make him feel better. She had also wanted to explore the issue of survivors guilt. They had spent several sessions discussing how he felt about the fact Haines hadn't made it. ' _Just great. As a doctor, I love loosing patients! Especially when I've got to know them_!' he had thought flippantly. Ella was a kindly black lady with soft reassuring features and a low, calming voice. Even her handwriting was soothing. She was the perfect type of person for her profession and John hated it. Not her specifically, that wouldn't be fair. She was only carrying out her job according to her training after all but John wished that somebody would tell him to just get on with it and push it all to the side as he would do in combat rather than insisting on dissecting his psyche.

"You say you're having difficulty reconnecting to the world at large, John" she had said during one of their sessions "the internet can be a valuable tool for finding that connection. We tend to loose our inhibitions online and to say things that we wouldn't otherwise be able or willing to express."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea. We have inhibitions for a reason, don't we?" He had argued.

Ella nodded "I take your point but I think keeping a blog, a sort of online diary, would help you to overcome some of the issues you're describing."

John couldn't help but feel the exercise pointless. He had gone back to the room he was currently living in and had dutifully set up the blog regardless. It only seemed to give him a new problem to worry about however; writer's block. After all, nothing happened to him anymore. What could he possibly write about? After about six weeks he had written perhaps two paragraphs in total. Now once again, on this chilly day in late January, he found himself staring at his laptop screen until it gave him a headache. He opened the drawer of the desk next to him to find a couple of paracetamol pills and the gun that he had kept not strictly legally. With the depth of his ennui being what it was he wryly contemplated which of these painkillers he would stop his headache with. In the end he decided to choose neither, opting to go out for a short walk in the park. He forgot about the blog for a while and contemplated his near future. He couldn't remain in the military accommodation for that much longer and the current state of his finances meant that he would probably have to leave London pretty soon too. He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost didn't hear a distantly familiar voice calling his name. A moment later he found himself drinking takeaway coffee with Mike Stamford, a fellow student from back before his army days, discussing his current predicament.

"Y'could share with someone." Mike suggested.

John snorted "Come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?". He wasn't exactly the best company lately. Mike chuckled softly. "What?" asked John.

"You know you're the second person to ask me that today."

John's curiosity was piqued. "Who was the first?"


End file.
